Steve never does anything he can't over-do, has never met a limit he hasn't challenged and cracked and left in ashes on the sidelines, and Danny's not sure why he expected anything different, or even if he actually did.
Expect something other than this. Other than Steve's mouth running fire along his throat, and Steve's hands shoving at his clothes. Danny told him to get rid of them, didn't he? He put it out there. Waved that red flag in front of this bull, and somehow didn't consider what would happen when it charged.
When what is happening is that his arms are getting stuck, because Steve is impatient and trying to shove Danny's shirt and vest of arms that still need to move, over hands that are still lost in Steve's clothing, making Danny have to push him a little out of the way so he can get them back, arch his back to get some space, shoulders rolling against the door's wood. "Are you, seriously, going to strip me down, here? Right at your front door?"
Even his grumbles are breathless, sounding too high-pitched, like the hum in his ears that only vibrates louder, brighter, more dangerously, as he wrestles with the fabric and Steve pushes at it and then it's gone, leaving his back bare against the wood and chest and stomach bare against Steve's shirt and jacket lapels and hands.
Most importantly, his hands.
His hands that are all over Danny. That Danny would have already said he knew, intimately, because Steve doesn't touch people much, okay, but he touches Danny. Hand heavy on his shoulder. Bone-crushing, breath-stealing hugs. A hand at his back or arm. On his, in very specific, very short-lived situations involving hospital beds.
But Steve's never touched him like this.
Like he's skin-hungry. An addict let loose and relapsing. As if he could find his way back to sanity on Danny's skin, tracking the lines of muscle, making them contract and release under his palms and fingers.
Mouth on Danny's throat, while Danny's pulse redlines into a straight, continual hum, instead of the beats its supposed to hit. Leaving him gasping, and clutching at Steve again, who is wearing too much, but that's, it's, he can't think that far ahead, yet.
Not when Steve is ruining his ability to think at all. "I'm never gonna be able to look at your front door the same way again."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-10-27 03:56 am (UTC)Steve never does anything he can't over-do, has never met a limit he hasn't challenged and cracked and left in ashes on the sidelines, and Danny's not sure why he expected anything different, or even if he actually did.
Expect something other than this. Other than Steve's mouth running fire along his throat, and Steve's hands shoving at his clothes. Danny told him to get rid of them, didn't he? He put it out there. Waved that red flag in front of this bull, and somehow didn't consider what would happen when it charged.
When what is happening is that his arms are getting stuck, because Steve is impatient and trying to shove Danny's shirt and vest of arms that still need to move, over hands that are still lost in Steve's clothing, making Danny have to push him a little out of the way so he can get them back, arch his back to get some space, shoulders rolling against the door's wood. "Are you, seriously, going to strip me down, here? Right at your front door?"
Even his grumbles are breathless, sounding too high-pitched, like the hum in his ears that only vibrates louder, brighter, more dangerously, as he wrestles with the fabric and Steve pushes at it and then it's gone, leaving his back bare against the wood and chest and stomach bare against Steve's shirt and jacket lapels and hands.
Most importantly, his hands.
His hands that are all over Danny. That Danny would have already said he knew, intimately, because Steve doesn't touch people much, okay, but he touches Danny. Hand heavy on his shoulder. Bone-crushing, breath-stealing hugs. A hand at his back or arm. On his, in very specific, very short-lived situations involving hospital beds.
But Steve's never touched him like this.
Like he's skin-hungry. An addict let loose and relapsing. As if he could find his way back to sanity on Danny's skin, tracking the lines of muscle, making them contract and release under his palms and fingers.
Mouth on Danny's throat, while Danny's pulse redlines into a straight, continual hum, instead of the beats its supposed to hit. Leaving him gasping, and clutching at Steve again, who is wearing too much, but that's, it's, he can't think that far ahead, yet.
Not when Steve is ruining his ability to think at all. "I'm never gonna be able to look at your front door the same way again."